


Four Riders and Revelations on Clifftop

by Sarlania



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-27
Updated: 2010-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-15 14:35:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarlania/pseuds/Sarlania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the near future, the earth and humanity is about to be destroyed. Sherlock and John have parted ways many years ago, but a few hours before the end they meet again and certain things must now come out into the open. A "crossover" of sorts with another fandom but I won't say which.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Riders and Revelations on Clifftop

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Tehomet for the beta and britpick!!!!!!!!!

  
**************************************

EARTH. SOL3.  
 **LOCATION:** MILKY WAY GALAXY. ANDROMEDA SECTOR.  
 **COMPOSITION:** NITROGENOUS AND OXYGEN BASED ATMOSPHERE, 70% WATER ON SURFACE.  
 **MAJOR LIFE FORM:** INTERMEDIATE SOPHISTICATED, KNOWN AS HOMO SAPIENS, POPULATION APPROXIMATELY EIGHT BILLION.  
 **STATUS:** DESTROYED. 14.387 BI, LOCAL TIME 02.00 GMT, MONDAY MORNING.

NO INHABITANTS ARE KNOWN TO HAVE SURVIVED.

  


  
**10:00 PM**   


John Watson was not a pessimistic man by nature. Over the course of his life he had developed what one might call a resigned attitude. There had only been two occasions in the past when he had found himself despairing at the futility of life. No, he preferred to tackle any problem head on, as a challenge to be surmounted rather than something to throw into the corner and sulked at.

Even the appearance of the aliens seven days ago hadn’t shaken him as it did everyone else. Extraterrestrial life? Sure, why not? After all, people like Stephen Hawkins, bless his soul, had been harping on about the possibility for decades. Their demand for the return of certain individuals they claimed the British government was sheltering sounded no different to similar threats made by countless hostile governments over the years. Surely it was no big deal?

But the ultimatum they delivered three hours ago changed all that.

It changed everything.

As he looked out into the street through a gap in his blinds, John was suddenly reminded of _The Lords of the Flies_ and the little boys on the island. Faced with extinction, the human race had done what Golding had so intuitively hinted at, and turned back the dial on many millennia of evolutionary progress, reverting to their bestial and savage origins. The darkening street lit by an unnatural orange glow was a scene reminiscent of a war zone. Except that this was not Afghanistan. It was not in the middle of a busy market with suicide bombers blowing themselves up and blood spraying and bits of limbs flying everywhere. This was in the middle of England, in London for God’s sake! And somehow that made what was unfolding that much worse than the Middle East ever would be. Windows were being smashed, houses looted, and obscene writing sprayed upon every surface imaginable. Bottles and cans flew everywhere as people drowned their sorrows and regrets. Drugs were passed around casually and several couples were fucking on the middle of the pavement, or on top of smashed up cars.

A naked man ran across John’s garden and landed face down in what appeared to be a puddle of sewage. He jerked for a few seconds and was still. Further up the street, a fire had broken out in a corner shop but nobody seemed to care. A few people were even throwing themselves into the building and their shrieks of pain were so piercingly loud, they could be heard distinctly over the sounds of desperate and dying mobs in the street.

John’s eyes swept over the scene again and something in the distance caught his attention. He hurriedly reached into the lower pocket of his dressing gown for a pair of glasses, accidentally crushing a mandarin in the process. He wiped his sticky fingers carelessly on the rough beige curtains before perching the lenses upon his nose.

 _This has got to be a mistake._

John stared incredulously as a familiar figure loomed from the bloody brightness of the fire that has now engulfed two houses. Unlike the rioters around him, the man that strode up the street towards John’s house was upright, composed and his clothes – that familiar long coat sitting so well on his shoulders - were clean and neat. His very being was surrounded by a halo of serenity, and he radiated confidence with every step.

Jesus Christ. It’s him.

What on earth is he doing here?

There was a quick tap-tap on the door.

For a second, John was tempted to ignore the knock. A rather childish response, he knew, and pointless. If John had learnt anything about this man in the years he’d known him, it was that he had the persistence of a nagging wife and the nose of a bloodhound. If John had gone out, he would break in and find out where John went, and follow him there if he was in the mood to do so. Sighing, John limped across the lounge and opened the door.

And there he stood with a smile on his face, as casually as you please, as if no time has passed since their separation. John stared up into that face that had for so long been burned into his mind; a face that had served as a daily tormenting reminder of that time, so long ago, when they had considered each other to be the very best of friends.

“Sherlock.”

“John.”

They stared at each other.

“This is a turn up, Sherlock.” The words tumbled inadvertently out of his mouth.

A furrow appeared on Sherlock’s forehead.

“I wasn’t expecting your company,” John elaborated. He felt his face flush. “Unfortunate choice of words there, sorry. Evening.”

Sherlock grimaced.

From out of nowhere, a dildo crashed into the frame of the door, almost denting Sherlock’s skull. He flinched and they both stared as it clattered on the floor between them. Behind them on the street, someone let out a piercing yell.

They looked up at the same time, and and their eyes met. _Right,_ thought John. _I better get the anger out and done with._ He opened his mouth to give vent to some insult that had formed at the tip of his tongue -

“Come with me.”

Sherlock’s voice was as John remembered it – deep and seductive. It was almost enough to distract him from the absurdity of the request.

Almost.

John leaned against the doorframe and glared at Sherlock. “Hello John,” he sneered sarcastically. “Yes, it’s so good to see you again. How have you been? Oh no, I’ve been quite well, yourself?”

One corner of Sherlock’s lips twitched. “I want you to come with me,” he repeated.

“Now?” John raised an eyebrow. “You turn up on my doorstep after God knows how many years and the first thing you want to do is drag me from my home.”

Sherlock laughed, a humourless, brittle laugh that cut John to the bone.

“My dear John, do you really think there is a later?”

“The least you could say is hello,” John said wearily, trying to ignore the various emotions coursing through his body.

“Hello, John. Now, will you come?”

John sighed. He was too tired to argue. Too tired to nurse any residual resentment he might have felt against Sherlock. “You haven’t changed, have you? The master of logic and reason wins again. Wait here, I’m going to get a coat.”

“Why bother?” Sherlock’s voice drifted up the stairs after him. “Not much likelihood of catching something now.”

“Perhaps not,” John yelled back. “But I’ll like to be warm and comfortable whilst I’m still breathing and have two feet to stand upon.”

  
**10:30 PM**   


Sherlock had a possessive arm around his waist as soon as they were out of the front door. He told John not to bother locking it. “You won’t be needing your house anymore, even if the world’s not going to end this afternoon. Your rent is overpriced and those seven steps are not very kind to that leg of yours.”

“Sherlock how did you - ”

They walked quickly past some bikers with knives who were in engaged in what looked like a mutual suicide pact. Sherlock gave him that familiar, exasperated look. “I read about your car accident in the newspaper.”

“I see.”

They approached the end of the street. The stench of burning flesh from the convenience store was overpowering. Sherlock steered them past a telephone box into a dark side alley.

“Sherlock – what are we – you’re not suggesting –“

“Don’t be an idiot, John. If I wanted to commit suicide I would’ve done it in Sussex, not travelled all the way here.”

“Sussex? Sherlock is that where-”

“I’ve travelled around a lot. Spent some time in New Zealand, Australia and Singapore. Went to the Olympics in Rio. What a dreadfully dull event. I really don’t see why everyone gets so worked up about it.”

“How did you get here anyway?”

They turned a corner and Sherlock gestured to a shape emerging in the darkness. “In this.”

John’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding, right?”

Sherlock shrugged casually, but the edges of his eyes crinkled in amusement.

“A present from Mycroft, actually.”

“From Mycroft? And you accepted?”

“I didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t.”

 _Of course._ John remembered their first case together. _A Study in Pink._ Oh, how Sherlock had hated the title! John recalled his abduction, and Mycroft’s offer to spy on Sherlock for quite a handsome sum of money. Money Sherlock later hilariously told him he should’ve accepted so they could split it – evidently he had, by that time, already guessed who John’s mysterious abductor was. Those days… Lestrade. Scotland Yard. Mrs Hudson. Baker Street. John felt a funny ticklish feeling at the back of his throat. Whoever said that memory fades with time was a bloody liar.

Sherlock had already seated himself on the red, sleek, sexy motorbike and was staring at him impatiently. “Are you going to stand there daydreaming, John?”

“No, no, of course not.”

“Good. Get on, now.”

John complied and gripped Sherlock’s waist tightly.

“You’ve lost weight.”

Sherlock scoffed and started the bike. The engine roared into life. “Well done, John. As astute as ever.”

John scowled. “Where are you taking me?”

“If I tell you now, that would ruin the surprise. Hang on.”

“What? SHERLOCK! THAT’S THE BLOODY WALL!”

“Sorry. Not used to your weight.”

John closed his eyes and clenched himself even tighter around Sherlock. It was just typical of the man. He sighed and prepared himself for a rough journey, thanking his own prudence of not having go into any with Sherlock driving before. After a harrowing couple of minutes navigating the narrow side alleys, they made it onto the main roads and out of the city.

  
**12:30 AM**   


They had been travelling for a few hours now along a deserted road.

John shivered and buried his face into Sherlock’s back, a comforting base to be anchored to at the speed they were going. It felt quite natural to be with Sherlock again. There was that unresolved tension between them, certainly, but all-in-all they seem to have automatically rediscovered that rapport and mutual understanding, and picked up from where they’d left off, all those years ago.

John wondered, not for the first time, what Sherlock’s motivation was for visiting him. Could it just have been the simple fact that Sherlock Holmes, an avowed loner, did not want to die alone? Maybe he was motivated by a desire for the support of a friend, and Sherlock just didn’t have many friends he could really turn to.

Or perhaps…  
Sherlock took a sharp corner that almost dislodged John from his seat. He tensed and held on even tighter, his fingernails digging into the folds of the other man’s coat. John was only grateful that people were either too busy enjoying their last couple of hours to be on the roads, or just couldn’t care less about someone doing at eighty miles an hour on a sixty miles and hour road.

“We’re here.”

John blinked.

Sherlock had parked the bike on the edge of a cliff that terminated hundreds of feet below in a writhing mass of foam and jagged rocks. The English Channel, or so John assumed, was bathed in that unnatural orange light from the shimmering barrier encapsulating the Earth.

Inland, was what looked at quite some distance like a Tudor mansion that seemed to be crumbling from the effects of neglect and time. Between it and them was gray barren moorland. It was strangely reminiscent of the wildness of Wuthering Heights Manor on the Yorkshire moor; a place of old magic and evil spirits. John shivered and wrapped his coat more tightly around himself.

”Sherlock, where are we?”

“I thought you ought to see this before the end,” Sherlock replied, helping him off the bike. “I realised that I’d never shown it to you.”

“Show me what? What is this place?”

“The Holmes family estate.”

“The what?”

Sherlock pursed his lips.

“Sherlock – did you just say that all this land, that mansion up there, belongs to your family?”

“Mine, now, yes, for all the good it will do.”

John gaped. “How did -?”

“Quite tiresome really. My ‘illustrious’ ancestor,” Sherlock made a face, “did some favours for Queen Elizabeth, the first one, and she gave him this place.”

“It’s so beautiful,” said John, turning on the spot to take in the views. “Beautiful.”

“I hated it,” Sherlock confessed softly. “It was too vast and empty. Dull. Even though we only spent the summers here, I was constantly bored. I wanted to move away, but then my mother would’ve been left alone as Mycroft already had a job in London.”

“How is Mycroft, by the way?”

“He’s dead,” said Sherlock flatly. “He was at that Cabinet meeting.”

John shuddered, remembering the videos that were transmitted across the world two days ago, of the Prime Minister being tortured while the screams of the other Cabinet members echoed in the background.

He placed a consoling hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that, Sherlock. I know you two didn’t get along...”

Sherlock snorted derisively, but his shoulder was trembling under John’s hand. “That’s an understatement.”

“He did care about you, Sherlock. He saved our lives at the pool, remember?”

“Of course I remember,” snapped Sherlock.

“Well, then...”

“Yes.” Sherlock buried his face in his hands.

John said nothing.

Sherlock sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Actually, I was lying about wanting to show you this, John.” His shoulders dropped. “Well, partly lying. I wanted to see this again before the end and for some completely incomprehensible reason I had to drag you along. I’m sorry to have taken you away from your warm house on such a foolish whim.”

The words caused John’s fingers to curl reflexively around Sherlock’s shoulder. He was surprised at this new side of Sherlock unfolding before him - a Sherlock who was evidently more emotional and more aware of the feelings of people around him. Since when did Sherlock apologize for an inconvenience? Age supposedly softens people, but John had never thought for a second that the passage of time would have an effect on Sherlock. It seemed he had been proved wrong. What was it that Lestrade had said to him once? _‘Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and one day, if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.’_ He smiled.

“Sherlock, there is nothing silly about wanting say goodbye to a place that had such an impact your life. Not many people have that opportunity, or foresight, or willpower.”

Sherlock scoffed weakly.

“It’s true,” protested John. “And despite the fact that I’ll probably develop frostbite if those aliens don’t kill us first, I’ll take this over having dildos thrown at me, any day.”

A giggle escaped from Sherlock’s lips. His eyes brightened and his eyes regained their animation. He was laughing now - a genuine bubbling laughter that sent a wave of warmth flooding through John’s body.

Oh how Sherlock could laugh!

  
**1:30 AM**   


Without warning, Sherlock threw himself onto the ground and his limbs sprawled everywhere comically. He made for a strange sight - a fully-grown man lying spreadeagled amongst the tall wet grass. Grinning, John moved more carefully to sit next to him and winced as a flash of pain shot through his right thigh.

“So, Sherlock, end of the world and all that. Any last thoughts? Regrets?”

Sherlock eyed him over. “A few of both. You?”

John drew his knees up to his chest and looked distantly over the fiery expanse of water. “Same here. All in all, I’ve lived a good life, did lots of things to proud of: graduating from medical school, being with the forces in Afghanistan, and helping you.” He smiled down at Sherlock. “They really were some of the best times of my life.”

Sherlock blinked. “And regrets?”

John sighed and picked at the moss beside his left foot. _Should I answer truthfully or not?_ He rubbed his eyes and decided to go with a slightly modified version of the truth. “A few. Making Sarah drive that night when it really should have been me in front of the wheel. Not being a supportive enough brother for Harry when she came to me for help after Sarah…” He swallowed.

“I’m sorry,” said Sherlock softly.

John shook his head. “It was a while ago. I thought I’d gotten over it.”

Sherlock’s hand squeezed his knee comfortingly

John smiled.

“Anything else?”

“Um…” John hesitated. “Also… our argument.”

“Our fight,” agreed Sherlock quietly.

“My stubbornness afterwards,” John added quickly.

“My great ego,” countered Sherlock.

“I should have come and seen you,” John blurted out just as Sherlock said, “I wish I’d visited you after Sarah’s death.”

They stared incredulously at each other.

“You mean...”

“Did you actually...”

“SHIT, John!”

“Oh my!” John laughed as Sherlock sat up rapidly with bits of grass stuck in his hair. “What a pair of idiots we’ve been.”

“Sadly, yes.” Sherlock rested his chin on his hands. “I’m afraid we’ve both been labouring under false apprehensions –“

“All those years,” groaned John. “And we didn’t say a word to each other.”

Sherlock shook his head slowly. “Makes me wonder what else we’ve kept to ourselves until these last few minutes, when it’s all too late.”

John’s stomach lurched.

Sherlock looked intently at him. “Don’t you think so?”

 _Could it be?_

Sherlock’s face was as inscrutable as ever, those beautiful gray eyes passively studying John as if he’d been no more than an interesting corpse.

John nervously licked his suddenly dry lips.

“Very much so,” he said slowly, hoping that his words would spell out his answer.

Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise and a sad, knowing smile flashed across his face.

John’s heart skipped a beat.

“It’s amusing, isn’t it John?” Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered rapidly. “Here we are at the end of the world and the end of life as we know it. Of the various things that we could be doing, we choose to have a discussion about the unchangeable past in the middle of a damp, cold moor.”

Disappointment settled at the pit of John’s stomach.

“Now that you put it that way,” he murmurs, looking down at his hands. They’re shaking, he noted distantly. They haven’t been like this since Sarah’s death. He dimly heard Sherlock move and wondered what he must be thinking right now.

Disgust?

Pity?

John had a sudden temptation to curl up into a ball like an hedgehog. Ridiculous.  


  
**1:15 AM**   


Out of nowhere, Sherlock’s hands appeared and gently covered his own, pressing down on his trembling skin. Sherlock’s fingers were thin and pale, but infinitely more elegant than his short and stubby ones, and considerably softer.

“John.”

Sherlock’s lips pressed themselves hesitantly against John’s forehead.

“Dear God.” John whispered in astonishment.

Sherlock drew back. “I don’t think the Almighty had anything to do with this.”

“He’ll probably have an apoplectic fit,” agreed John, trying to keep his shaking voice even.

“His heavenly physicians are certainly getting their penances’ worth.”

John lifted his head.

Sherlock was gazing keenly at him. “I’ve got my doctor and I’ll be damned if I ever let him go again.”

 _Oh. Oh._

The ardent passion in that declaration, that defiance, was so comforting familiar. How many times had John heard him use that tone of voice before? The fury that voice could unleash had made criminals confess on the spot, had gained Sherlock several enemies in Scotland Yard and persuaded John that they were perhaps better off without a TV in their Baker Street lodgings.

What an impossible, incredible man.

Sherlock leaned in and their lips brushed against each other, tentatively at first but soon John was nibbling at the edges of Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock whimpered and ran his hands up John’s back and to the nape of his neck. John pressed his advantage and deepened the kiss, wanting to gain access to the heat of Sherlock’s mouth.

There was no desperation to their movements, only a strong sense of certainty and purpose, a warmth and sweetness that seeped through every pore of John’s body. He felt they were in a plane of their own – where just Sherlock and John existed. The rest of the world, those metal creatures up there in the sky… they didn’t exist.

Not any more.

  
**1:30 AM**   


John had no idea how long he and Sherlock spent in each other’s arms, but eventually they pulled apart to catch their breath, the air between them turning into wisps of mist.

Sherlock recovered first and rubbed the back of John’s neck with his thumb.

“That was nice,” he said, still sounding a little out of breath.

John smiled. He reached up to trace the line of Sherlock’s cheekbones. “It was, but long overdue. You are a bastard, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry if I caused you any… distress?”

“Distress?” John glared good-naturedly. “You almost gave me a heart attack! And at my age… well…”

“I wanted to be sure.” Sherlock blinked rapidly. “I… I didn’t want to misinterpret your words.”

“Sherlock Holmes, uncertain of his deductive abilities? Now that’s a change.”

“Only in matters of the heart, my dear John.” Sherlock smiled shyly.

“Speaking of which, may I? It’s absolutely freezing here.” Without waiting for a reply, John shifted their bodies so that they sat facing the great expanse of the open sea. He settled down between Sherlock’s thighs, leaning his head against Sherlock’s chest where he could feel the man’s heart thumping wildly through the coat. _So real. So alive._

Sherlock chuckled and quickly wrapped his long arms around John. “We've only got half an hour or so to live,” he said quietly.

John nodded. The burnt orange sky seemed to have lost much of its sinister, alien quality and John was surprised to realise that he found it quite hauntingly beautiful.

“You know,” he said slowly. “I didn’t finish my list before.”

“Hmm?”

“My regrets.”

“I thought you had.”

“I have now, yes.”

Sherlock’s arms tightened their embrace.

“Before you came,” John confessed. “I wasn’t really looking forward to this moment. That one last thing on my list was eating away at me day and night, and I started to wonder, if I had done something about it earlier, Sarah would still be alive. I… I don’t know.”

“Well,” murmured Sherlock. “As they say, better late than never.”

John sighed, tilting back his head to look Sherlock in the eyes. “You. Me. Those years afterwards could have been so different. I can’t help but regret that, Sherlock. But now, thanks to you, I can now face the end of the earth with a unburdened heart.”

Sherlock’s lips brush against his. “Well then, that’s good to know.”

  
**1:45 AM**   


They spent several minutes just sitting there in near silence and occasionally exchanging a few soft kisses.

John suddenly felt strangely sleepy… The crashing of the waves below, the soft whistling of the wind, Sherlock’s warmth behind and around him, all worked together to cause his already weary eyes to flutter closed.

“I find,” said Sherlock suddenly, pulling him out of his reverie, “that we don’t truly appreciate the things we have in life until they’re taken away from us.”

“Yes,” agreed John with a yawn.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to his ear.

“My greatest regret had always been not telling you about my own feelings… feelings I’ve had ever since our first meeting.”

John was surprised. “At Bart’s? Really?”

Sherlock nodded. “I am anything but an emotional and caring man, John, but I liked you as a friend and a colleague, a comrade in arms, if you want to give it a more romantic twist. I didn’t want to seduce you in fear of losing that friendship.”

“To be honest, I always thought you were asexual, the way you turned up your nose whenever sex or love was mentioned. And your reaction to my marriage…”

Sherlock wriggled his fingers dismissively. “Asexuality is just a label society imposes. The world isn’t black and white John. It took me a while to realise my feelings towards you were something more than friendly regard. And, well…” Sherlock sounded a little sheepish. “I couldn’t really tell one from the other; never had much experience of either.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” It was such a clichéd thing to say, John realised, and poor comfort to the man holding him in his arms. Sherlock huffed, his breath brushing past John’s skin in a manner that would have been seductive – if the world wasn’t about to be destroyed. He said so to Sherlock, who laughed out in delight.

“Macabre attitude, but I sympathize.”

“How long do we have?” John asked absently.

Sherlock showed him his watch, a beautiful Oyster Rolex inlaid with diamonds.

  
**1:53 AM**   


They sat in silence for a while and contemplated the thin bands of colour that had started to appear on top of the orange shield.

“I can’t believe it,” said John finally. “All that talk about global warming, asteroids, bird flu, nuclear spills, and we finally get killed by a bloody alien.”

Sherlock gave John’s forearm a reassuring squeeze. “Actually, the concept really appeals to me. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…ironic, isn’t it?”

“Ridiculous,” laughed John. “You are even more miserable than me.”

A bead of sweat formed on Sherlock’s brow.

  
**1:56 AM**   


The orange barrier was starting to split, a huge gaping jaw in the fabric of the sky. It had gotten hotter, John noted, and the atmospheric pressure was slowly changing, increasing and decreasing like the crests and troughs upon a wave.

He touched Sherlock’s face gently. “So, no regrets now?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Nothing else you want before those bloody Daleks blow us out of the sky?”

“Nothing,” said Sherlock lightly, but John saw a tear collect at the corner of Sherlock’s right eye. A moment later, gravity had become all too much and it trickled down Sherlock’s beautiful, sharp cheekbones, leaving a damp furrow on his grass-stained face.

John realised that this was the first genuine tear he’d seen Sherlock shed.

“My dear John,” Sherlock whispered hoarsely. “You’re crying.”

John felt his own cheeks in astonishment

They were wet.

“So I am,” he said slowly.  


  
**1:58 AM**   


They were both lying on the grass now, curled in each other’s arms, and it had started to get more and more difficult to breathe.

“John,” said Sherlock, though it was more a whisper than anything. “There is – there is one last thing.”

“Yes?” The word, when John forced it through his teeth, triggered a spasm of pain in his left chest. That lung was starting to collapse, he noted dimly. Ah well…

There was the sound of fingernails scraping over keyboards, a rattled intake of breath, and suddenly Sherlock was leaning over him. How he got the strength and willpower, John didn’t know.  
Sherlock bent down and whispered in his ear.

“Was it worth it?”

Memories flashed before his eyes.

 _Sherlock looking through a microscope._

 _Sherlock running through alleyways, climbing stairs, jumping buildings, whilst his great coat flapped around him._

 _Sherlock sulking in his blue silk dressing gown._

 _Sherlock playing beautiful pieces on his Stradivarius – Vivaldi’s Four Seasons was John’s favourite._

 _Sherlock smiling, Sherlock angry, Sherlock taking the piss out of everyone he meets._

 _Sherlock in hospital. Sherlock bleeding. Sherlock dying._

And through it all, John Watson was there. An extra pair of hands ready to help; an extra head – skull, brains and all, for Sherlock to bounce ideas off. He was the one who reassured the victims of Sherlock’s barbs, the one who looked after Sherlock after he’d run himself to the brink of collapse time after time. Never receiving anything but the gift of Sherlock’s regard and friendship. And isn’t that enough?

Was it worth it?

He stared up at those bright gray eyes.

They were calm. Content.

At peace.

John smiled reassuringly despite the stabbing pain in his chest. Yes! He wanted to shout out if he had the breath. Yes, it was worth a thousand deaths…

Sherlock closed his eyes in relief and leaned down to kiss him deeply, ardently, passionately.

It was painful, burning ecstasy for a few seconds and then, nothing.

Gone.

Silence.

Darkness.


End file.
